This is my private life. I have no friends to fear, I've got no problems, no cross to bear. If you can find me, come and get me out of here.
This is my private place. Everything is neat and clean; the skeletons are hidden in the closet.
These are my private things--there they are against the wall (the dirty pictures, religious objects).
This is my private bed. This is where I lie at night staring at a light bulb hanging on the ceiling, waiting for a dream to come and get me out of here.
Here in my humble room at night, I often wonder what goes on out there; what makes them run so scared? I often stare at the people passing by, but they can't see me through my window shades just like I'm not even there.
There's something dangerous I like.
I know my problems aren't your fault.
What I really want to know: Has it always been this way?
Come and get me out of here.
 dyejob · Fri Mar 28, 2008 @ 09:52am · 0 Comments |
